


Mainspring

by prairiegod



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Injury, Domestic, Fluff and Angst, Resurrection, Tarot Themes, he/him drifter, she/her Alternate Drifter, they/them Guardian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-09-26 15:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiegod/pseuds/prairiegod
Summary: Hyper Light Drifter but everybody lives and nobody perma-dies (except the Immortal Cell and several unnamed dirks)





	1. death and all his friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every story has an end. For the Drifter, this is only the beginning.

He knew it wouldn’t be fair. Nothing was ever fair. He knew deep in his gut that this wouldn’t be a battle he would walk out of. This wasn’t a scuffle with a pack of genetic abominations or murderous war machines. This was a battle with the cause, no, _ creator _ of his disease; the Immortal Cell - _ and he’d just won _. All 25 or so feet of its shambling vantablack form now disintegrated, leaving the core of its terror out in the open and vulnerable to his blade. Just as the blade split the core a black spire of the cell’s dying wrath jutted into Drifter’s chest, immediately sending him tumbling down to the hard floor.

The chest-splitting rattling coughs that plagued him for god knows how long were now just a continued series of rib-shattering pulses that left him doubled down on the cold floor. All he wanted was for the coughs to be gone. Well, he couldn’t cough anymore with one of his shattered ribs piercing a lung. Now all he could do is lean down and let the disgusting acidic blood roll down to the floor as he tried to keep himself from passing out from the sight of the sticky fuchsia coating the entirety of his chest. His senses were absolutely overloaded with tremors from pain and the structure around him falling apart.

Amidst the chaos and in the corner of his eye, he spotted something unlike the rubble of machinery or concrete around him. It was that dog. The Jackal; the very god that had set him up to his own death. The god that had foolishly given full reign of its main power to the power-hungry creators of the cell. The one that had been dormant for so long that sightings of its presence were dismissed as a mere he-said-she-said. Despite everything that he had been lured into, however, the only command Drifter could follow from the backs of his ringing head was to follow.

His companion drone whizzed around his shoulder, urgently beeping as he dragged himself to his feet. Even if he had any health packs left, they wouldn’t be able to help with the extent of his injuries. At this point, he couldn’t even dash to avoid the falling debris with how fatigued his body was. All he could do was wrap his cloak tighter around him and avoid falling off the catwalks into the abyss below. Each yard he walked, the pain worsened to the point of his vision becoming a bright mess of harsh light and forcing the Drifter to slow to a crawl to stop himself from collapsing on the spot. Even still, he pressed on. Through burning tears he dragged himself through the stale-aired tunnels underneath the world he was sure he’d never see again, keeping on by the only wish that these hallways would not be his catacomb. 

He couldn’t see at this point from how much his eyes stung, but the sting of cold night air on his burning airways and the characteristic outline of a crackling fire were surely not a hallucination. Before him sat a weathered monolith carved into a canine visage, its inviting visage offering a place for the Drifter to collapse against. His unstable legs barely got him to the statue before they completely gave out. “Thank you ”, a voice not his own echoed in his head. The voice was none other than the Jackal itself, moonlight glinting off its silky black fur and angular features. The Drifter suddenly found himself upright and standing outside of central town on a red dune under the first blue sky he’d ever remembered.

The Jackal, backed by a shining diamond halo, strode up to greet him as if the two had known each other forever. “**I am whole now. The immortal cell is destroyed, my power may return to me ** . ” the Jackal projected, its eyes meeting the drifter’s wild eyes. “ **I cannot walk among you for much longer. My strength still needs to replenish. I cannot stay among you much longer.** ” Drifter wanted to say something, but he couldn’t. He was completely frozen as a tower rose out of the sand, its edifice casting a shadow on the landscape behind the two. As soon as the jackal was beside him, it was already striding towards the towering doors of the structure. Drifter suddenly doubled down in pain, a flow of fuchsia piercing through his chest and onto the red sand. “ **You shall not die in vain, Drifter** ” The jackal turned, uttering mere final words to the Drifter before the tower descended into the rusty dunes. “ **The world is still broken. We need someone to fix it.**”

Once again, the drifter was alone and in pain. 


	2. the shepherd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Jackal rallies its chosen before time runs out

The rains rolled across the glossy black fur of the god, its paws galloping against the ozone-scented earth of the ruined south. It had a mission, after all. The world it created wasn’t going to die after all this. The canid deity trotted past rusted skeletons of ancient war machines that it had given its chosen people the power to create. The jackal didn’t have time to contemplate; a job needed to be done. At last, the jackal arrived at its objective: the corpse of the Guardian, their rusted sword and companion drone still cradled beside them in the scorched dirt.

The jackal strode up to their remains with a purpose, placing its muzzle to Guardian’s chest and releasing its power unto them. A faint white light spread from Guardian’s chest, quickly flowing through their dry veins and refiring long-dead nerves. They awoke with a violent jolt, coughing up dust and bile from ages of solemn abandon. Guardian’s senses struggled with the shock of such a hastily renewed lease on life as they slumped to their knees to get a better hold on the ground and reality itself seemingly. The jackal stood aside and let Guardian come to their senses.

Looking down with wild eyes, Guardian quickly snapped out of their post-resurrection shock and creakily rose to their feet. Guardian’s eyes quickly met with the jackal’s piercing white eyes. “**He lives. The Magician has survived his Judgement. Go to the shallows with the girl**”. The broad figure looked around their shoulder, spying their broadsword and dead drone lying in the mud. Without hesitation the jackal stood before the small robot and placed a paw onto its casing, quickly filling it with new electric life. Guardian didn’t have time to ponder the extent of the god’s power; the jackal was suddenly flanking them, hastily leading them to the teleporter. Their drone whizzed ahead of them to the teleporter and quickly pulled up its holo-HUD showing the list of available warp pads. Guardian caught up with the drone and tapped the blinking symbol for the northmost point, bracing themself for impact all the while savoring the healing effect the teleporter’s beam emitted.

Snow littered the ground of the makeshift camp Alt had set up in a dilapidated cabin in the muggy north, the light of a small fire dancing across her dented canine helmet. The only time she’d taken it off was to take a bite out of the occasional roasted antelope squirrel she had managed to snipe or when she had found some wine in one of the cellars underneath a house and drank herself into a slurred stupor. She would have regretted an action like that if her two party members had been there; Guardian probably would have given her a stern talking to about drinking unknown liquids found in the ruins. That didn’t matter to her anymore, though. Guardian was dead and Drifter had fled to explore the deathtrap labs of the south. She escaped to the north to try and have less important things to worry about, like weeding out the remaining cultists or trying to boil enough water to last her the week. Thinking about everything made her tired. She wanted to close her eyes and rest but a sharp white glow pierced the lenses of her mask, overshadowing the dim light of the fire. She knew that glow: it was the Jackal.

She looked up to meet the god’s haloed visage and almost anticipated the words it would place in her head. “**It has been done, my child. The Magician is in the shallows. Go to him-**” The Jackal didn’t even have to finish its words. Alt was already dashing out the collapsed doorframe of the cabin, practically skipping 10 steps at a time on the way to the warp pad. Emotions she hadn’t felt in a long time coursed through her; urgency, the pure surge of adrenaline, and hope. 

She was even more shocked when she saw the familiar wide frame of the Guardian. Launching herself off of a row of steps, she dashed towards them and wrapped her arms tightly around their broad shoulders. Alt couldn’t help herself from the embrace. Guardian was just as shocked as her from their body language. Despite how hard she was hugging them Guardian couldn’t just pry her off so soon, the messy fur collars of their capes tangling together. They couldn’t stay like this forever though. They had a job to be done. 


	3. a bitter reunion

The two drifters hacked and slashed their way through backroads and tunnels towards the northwest ruins. The urgency in the air was nearly suffocating; Alt didn’t even take the time to make sure that any enemies she struck were fully dead. Guardian pushed ahead of the dog-headed drifter, shoving aside heavy debris that blocked the end of the tunnel the two stood in. Before them lay the remnants of a canid monolith, and below that was the battered and huddled figure of the Drifter. To another drifter, he would seem like just another doomed corpse who met the oh so common fate of the “profession”. The two would’ve thought the same if it wasn’t for the familiar companion drone hovering at his side neurotically. 

Guardian and Alt jogged towards the Drifter, kneeling down to his level to check the severity of his wounds. Guardian gently lifted Drifter’s soaked hands away from his torso, calling forth their companion drone to act as a light. The light blinked on, and the contrast of light levels seemingly caused the Drifter to stir a small bit. The drifter reacted further by lurching forward, coughing up a mist of sour blood and spittle onto Guardian’s gauntlets. Drifter was soaked with cold sweat, covered in his own blood, and starting to whimper quietly as he broke into a series of rough tremors. The sight of his condition was pitiful; this almighty warrior had taken down the leaders of tyrannical bloodthirsty armies, explored the labs of the war-torn south and emerged intact, _hell, he had killed the IMMORTAL CELL_, yet he was being defeated by himself from the inside out. Guardian scooped the limp figure up and cradled him into the fur in their cape, beckoning to Alt to activate a nearby elevator. The piece of tech creaked in protest of the sudden break in its cycle of neglect but several good kicks from Alt’s boot got it running to a degree high enough to work properly. The rickety elevator finally breached the surface, becoming jammed only a foot or two from the surface.

The two drifters stepped up from the platform, briefly scouting their rough location from central town. At least, they hoped central was still standing. The chambers underneath holding the cell were destabilized structurally, so central could have been destroyed for all they knew. Alt pulled Guardian’s sword from its scabbard before they could protest and started towards an overgrown path, swinging at the brush. “**Alt! How do we even know that leads anywhere?**” Guardian protested. “**Anywhere’s better than here. Paths lead to supplies. Or people**”. Guardian glanced down at Drifter, becoming even more anxious as they noticed the even paler shade of blue Drifter’s face had become and catching a whiff of the blood that began to drip off of Drifter and was beginning to dry on Guardian’s chestplate. Guardian immediately picked up the pace and dashed to catch up with Alt. Drifter was getting paler by the minute and his breath rattled in his ribcage, so the two traveled as fast as they possibly could without moving him too much. Alt and Guardian began dashing and passed the ruined threshold of the western dregs, leaping over the rot-filled chasms and slashing and shooting their way through droves of enemies. 

By the time the two drifters reached the span of habitable slums of central town, they were scraped and a sweaty mess. Guardian was bitten to hell and back by insects attracted to the vile fuchsia coating their torso. Alt's forearms had met the business end of an unusually large herd of dirks and had bite marks up and down her gear yet still kept going despite the stinging wounds. Their companion drones were each out of power at this point so they had no choice but to brute-force the entire path to central instead of using the warp pad. 

Neither of them had ever remembered a day this hard.


	4. out of the threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> central still stands, but the jackal's chosen are barely holding on

The three battered drifters reached central bloody, sweaty, and running on pure adrenaline alone. Citizens and fellow drifters alike murmured and gawked at the sight of the three practically sprinting in the direction of the apothecary, many turning from the presumably first blue sky they’d seen. A few citizens ran up to the trio and began offering water, bandages, and an otter wearing a pair of carved antlers ran towards the direction of the apothecary. A wizened raccoon pushed through the crowd towards the trio. “ **All right, all right. What’s the commotion! Have the tremors started again-** ” The raccoon stopped in his tracks upon seeing the three battered blood-soaked drifters, and his husky voice quieted and took on a tone of grave urgency. “ **Follow me, quick. Your friend is pretty much on death’s door** ”. The two drifters uttered no protests as they trailed behind the raccoon, pushing aside the dusty tapestries hanging from the doorframe. “ **We’ll be lucky if he makes it through the night. Fella’s probably got a bottle’s worth of blood in im’.** ” The apothecarian hurried around the room, gathering small vials of unknown liquids, bandages, and a sewing kit. “ **Bring im’ to the cot in the back. My assistant’ll take care of yer gear for ya. You two get some rest” ** Guardian gently set drifter’s small frame onto the cot, ducking out of the room as the apothecarian roughly drew the curtain closed. 

The two exhausted drifters trudged over to the wall and slumped down against the planters. The two pretty much mentally checked out for an amount of time they forgot to track. The apothecarian walked out of the backroom, rousing the two out of their dreamless sleep. “ **Managed to get ‘im stabilized enough but it was kinda tricky with the wound on his side** ”. Alt and Guardian looked on with bated breath as the apothecarian described in graphic details the injuries their companion sustained. “ **His condition is stable enough, but he’s far from out of the woods yet. I listened to his breathing and it sounds like there’s some blood in his lungs, but it should gradually be expelled-** ” 

The raccoon turned to look at the two bloody and scraped drifters, wrinkling his snout. “**Jeez, you two are pretty bad as well. Throw your stuff on that chair, I’ll get ya fixed up. Ina will get em’ washed in a bit.**” The two didn’t have the energy to protest, stripping off their upper layers of armor and setting them on a nearby stool. Alt begrudgingly allowed the raccoon to treat the shrapnel scratches and dirk bites she sustained while clearing the tunnels in the northwest, granted she kept her helmet on snug while being cared for. Guardian was grateful to finally get out of their blood-saturated chestplate and cape, eagerly accepting the medpacks and salves the apothecarian administered. After being treated and laying down once again an elderly raccoon, presumably the aforementioned Ina, brought a stack of spare blankets and clothes to the two, replacing the stack with their tattered outerwear and seeing herself out wordlessly. Alt grabbed an oversized tunic and trousers, beginning to strip herself of the rest of her gear without a second thought. Guardian had enough decency to remove change behind a row of shelves, but both of them left their helmets on. It was an unspoken rule of drifters to remain as anonymous as possible. The apothecarian walked out from behind a set of beakers carrying a few medpacks and a bottle of antiseptic fluid, shooting a glance towards the two. 

The three entered the small back room without a word between them. The apothecarian took to preparing a change of bandages as the two seated themselves in a pile of cushions and blankets. The apothecarian lifted the blanket of the cot as he began removing soaked bandages and placing them in a garbage pail. Just as the raccoon was cutting through the bandages on his chest, Drifter started to cough violently. Guardian reflexively bolted up and Alt shuddered at the sound of the fluid-filled wheezing. The apothecarian reflexively grabbed a nearby pail, holding it up to Drifter’s mouth to catch the grotesque combination of coagulated blood and bile. Drifter’s head slumped back onto the pillow after vomiting for what seemed like hours. The raccoon finished changing the bandages and applying a few medpacks to speed up the healing process, leaving the room and closing the curtain behind him. Alt and Guardian then noticed that Drifter’s helmet and mask were removed, most likely to give his head a soft place to rest.

His blue face was pale from blood loss, and his light hair was matted to his head from sweat with his helmet. His lips were chapped and covered in scabs from years of coughing under his mask. He looked pitiful and helpless; weak and stripped of his valued anonymity. It was an unspoken code among drifters to keep your helmet on around others, and a sense of security at the same time. Alt had been in her helmet for so long that the sweat had started to fog up the lenses. She unclasped the gas mask attachment and set it on a pillow next to her. Guardian followed suit, removing their helmet and setting it aside. Now, they waited. Waited for their companion to wake from his dreamless sleep. Every time they thought he would regain consciousness and be able to hear their stories of what he accomplished, Drifter would end up vomiting blood or violently coughing, slumping back to the pillow afterward. Alt and Guardian barely ate or drank and only fell into exhausted bouts of sleep. They waited through eight changes of blood-soaked bandages, countless violent coughing fits, and two quiet nights that they wondered if Drifter would make it through.


	5. you arrive along with the sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> old friends and fresh faces present themselves

Four days after the Immortal Cell was destroyed, Drifter woke. The first thing he noticed upon coming to consciousness was that he was lying on an unfamiliar bed. An overwhelming scent of herbs and disinfectants burned his sore airways, making his head burn. God, his senses were killing him. He tried to turn over to see if there was a source to the aroma, but the sudden movement sent a jolt of pain through his abdomen and roused another dreadful rattling cough from his already raw throat. Before he could react, he was wrapped in a tight familiar hug. The size and intensity of the hug was disturbingly familiar; Guardian. 

It couldn’t be, though. He watched the life drain from their eyes as they finally succumbed to the same disease he had. All of this had to be some sort of comatose dream, he thought. That theory dissolved away immediately when a familiar voice echoed through the room. “We thought we lost you, Drifter. You did it. You destroyed the cell.” the voice said said softly while embracing him like they hadn’t seen eachother in lifetimes. It was Guardian, in the flesh. 

Just as Guardian unwrapped their arms from drifter’s body to stop themself from causing any more damage to his already battered form, another pair of arms restarted the embrace albeit a little too harshly for his liking. This presence, he assumed to be Alt. Drifter craned his neck upwards to fully scout the room, getting the most wonderful shock. Both of his companions were at his bedside, and unmasked. Even if he was going to die, he would die happy knowing that his friends were safe. An unspoken rule amongst those who took up the “drifting” profession to stay masked. Well, not much of a rule and more of a sense of control. To control your anonymity was to control your safety, and safety was the rarest thing to find these days.

This was the first time Drifter had seen the entirety of Guardian’s face under the dented helmet they wore, but their near vantablack skin tone was fairly recognizable. So was their glowing teal eyes, one closed shut with a long thin scar that looked to have been done by a precision blade swing rather than a claw. They looked to belong to the same race as the child in the soccer fields by the abandoned park, or the shady gunsmith who didn’t look so happy whenever he saw Drifter. Guardian was considered a fair age by most of the townsfolk, and their hair; a heavily faded shade of lilac held in a haphazard warrior’s bun evidenced this even more. Drifter would have been able to identify them even if they lacked their signature fur-lined cape, a feeling of safety and stern fatherly guidance lingered around them.

The “Alternate” Drifter, also known to townsfolk as “Alt” or ”Altie” was sort of an anomaly to the town and especially to Drifter, and even more so now that Drifter had seen what she truly looked like in the flesh. He and Guardian had always suspected that she was one of the west’s raccoonfolk inhabitants but now that her helmet was off, she appeared to be one of the same blue-skinned artificial creations that he was, albeit possibly mutated or from an alternate “batch”. Her skin was much darker and slightly more purple than his was, and her angular face bore thin violet animalistic scars across the side of her face across one of her white eyes, causing it to be in a permanent squint. Just below her muted navy hair which was tied into a half-effort ponytail with a piece of what appeared to be wire, were some patches of miscolored skin which appeared to be burned long ago. Her intimidating stature was made even more so from her almost comically sharp teeth which slightly poked out of her mouth. Still, that mouth had uttered many clever quips and bouts of rough wolfy laughter which made even Guardian shudder a bit.  He couldn’t have been more happy to hear that again.


End file.
